Dipping pen to bleached paper,
black ink on bone.
A soulfu craving
in the belly of
a writers attention.
I can ignore such longing
until unfettered
words boil over
my cauldron of good intentions
and tubmle here,
to this space,
neither sanctimonious or grand
simply a meeting of
shadow with divinity

Above the margins
gods and goddesses
curse aloud
Singing to drab concrete streets,
darkened alleys, wide open fields,
trickeling brooks and parched deserts.
demanding their voices heard
oh how I thank you!
to ask so much
and so very little
of us all.